


Este Optimi Invicem

by PajamaSecrets



Category: Bill & Ted (Movies), John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Origin Story, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Origin Story, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-03-02 13:21:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18811726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PajamaSecrets/pseuds/PajamaSecrets
Summary: You may have heard the story of Bill and Ted, two California valley boys thrown into an excellent adventure through the circuits of time so they can pass their history report.This, unfortunately, is not that story.Ted Logan fails the history report... and becomes John Wick.





	1. Tempus

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fic I've been working on and off for years. With the John Wick threequel coming out, I've finally kicked my ass into finishing it and will be posting regular updates. It's a crack premise, but a somewhat serious fic. 
> 
> Please note this is a Choose Not to Warn fic.

 

Este Optimi Invicem

 

You may have heard the story of Bill and Ted, two California valley boys thrown into an excellent adventure through the circuits of time so they can pass their history report.

 

This, unfortunately, is not that story.

 

I. Tempus

 

“The circuits of time,” Rufus gasped, clawing his way through the crumbling atmosphere. “The Great Ones. We have to—”

 

“It’s too late, Dad,” his daughter said, faintly, as reality itself dissolved around them. “They failed the history report. The Great Ones will be separated.”

 

She did not have the chance to finish explaining before she vanished into thin air. But Rufus knew what the separation of the Great Ones meant: Wyld Stallyns would no longer exist. The music on which Rufus’ society was formed would never be written. Everything he had worked for would be for nothing.

 

And he’d never get the Great Ones to sign his kids’ favorite album.

 

 _Bogus_.

 

***

 

The circuits of time, no matter how broken, always managed to repair themselves eventually. A new pathway would be built, stemming from the old. The timeline would right itself, creating a universe where Rufus aided the Great Ones with their history report—a universe where true peace and harmony could be reached through the righteous power of rock and roll.

 

But that doesn’t mean the original pathway stopped. In fact, it grew stronger, fueled by a dark and formidable force known as the Continental: a powerful coalition of skilled criminals with a hand in every government and private sector worldwide. The Continental kept the fabric of this timeline tightly woven, bringing balance to the world through violence, intimidation and death—which was a far cry from a utopia brought on by sweet tunes, but it kept life rather peaceful for your run-of-the-mill civilian.

 

And Ted Theodore Logan did manage to become a Great One in this world: a ruthless hitman so feared, he was the very bogeyman that plagued villains’ nightmares. An assassin known as John Wick.

 

But before Ted Theodore Logan became John Wick—he was simply Ted, a 17-year-old kid who had just failed his history report.


	2. Præterita

II. Præterita

 

“This is bogus, Ted,” Bill mumbled as he sat on the floor of Ted’s bedroom.

 

CD’s and cassette tapes littered the carpet. Ted had already given Bill the majority of his collection—“It’s always been _our_ collection, dude”—but he figured he should take a few albums to Oates Military Academy. Surely it wasn’t push-ups and drills all the time, right?

 

Bill sniffled and wiped his face against the sleeve of his shirt. Ted did the same.

 

“I can’t deal with emotional stuff, dude, you know that,” Bill said.

 

“Nor can I, Bill,” Ted replied.

 

“Bogus,” Bill said.

 

“Heinous,” said Ted.

 

“ _Bullshit_.” Bill hissed.

 

“Whoa, Bill,” Ted said, “it is most unlike you to swear.”

 

“The most non-triumphant occasion calls for cursing,” Bill said with a shrug.

 

Ted nodded and bit his lip. This _was_ bullshit.

 

“How much underwear do you think I’ll need?” Ted said, attempting to lighten the mood.

 

“Just take it all, dude. You never know,” Bill said.

 

Ted looked at the array of clothes in front of him. He picked up a particularly excellent red jean-vest—he cut the sleeves off himself—and looked at the giant yellow smiley face he painted on the back.

 

“Bill,” Ted said, taking a deep breath, “my worldly possessions mean nothing if I can’t share them with you by my side.”

 

“We can write each other,” Bill replied, absent-mindedly sorting t-shirts by color. “Or call, but long-distance to Alaska is most egregiously expensive, dude.”

 

“Yeah,” Ted said. “But... Wyld Stallyns. Our band. Our dream. It’s _dead_ , dude.”

 

Bill flinched. “Don’t say that, Ted,” he said quietly.

 

“It’s not like we even know how to play,” Ted sighed. He glanced at his watch. Half past midnight.

 

He shoved the piles of clothes, his cassette player and tapes into the one suitcase he was allowed to bring to Alaska. “My plane leaves way early, dude. I gotta sleep.”

 

Bill stood up. “Can I crash here?” He asked, voice wavering.

 

“Yeah,” Ted croaked out.

 

They didn’t bother to drag out a sleeping bag. They slept back-to-back in Ted’s bed, something they hadn’t done since the fourth grade—

 

and never would again.


	3. Ludus Magnus

 

III. Ludus Magnus

 

The very first day Ted started Oates Military academy, two cadets held Ted down and shaved off his hair. It fell to the floor of the locker room in dark, thick clumps.

 

“The hell you think you were doin’ with that faggy haircut?” One guy barks.

 

“I don’t know, dude,” Ted replied, voice shaking.

 

“That’s ‘I don’t know,’ SIR!” The man yelled.

 

“I don’t know, sir,” Ted copied, voice hollow.

 

“Now drop and give me fifty.”

 

“Fifty what?” Ted asked, then quickly added—“sir?”

 

“Are you retarded? PUSHUPS, Logan! Now!”

 

Ted managed twenty before his arms gave out.

 

The cadets laughed at him and left him on the cold locker room floor, chucking a broom and dustpan at him. The broom handle hit him in the head and landed on the tile with a harsh _clank_.

 

When Ted could move his arms again, he stood, swept up his hair off the floor, and tossed it in the nearest trash can. He ran a trembling hand over the short-cropped fuzz on his head and tried not to cry.

  

***

Turns out at military school, you still had to learn stuff. Ted thought it would just be a lot of push-ups. Which it was, but there was also three mandatory hours of class daily.

 

So Ted failed regular school and was going to fail military school. Great. At least he’d get buff in the meantime.

 

After the first few weeks of drills, Ted’s body stopped screaming in pain, and the agony in his muscles at night became a dull ache. He stopped tripping over his own feet, and stopped calling his superiors “dude”.

 

One day, Ted was dragged out of bed at the crack of dawn by one of his classmates, Franklin.

 

“Get up, fag,” Franklin yelled, pushing Ted off his bunk and shoving a set of standard issue fatigues into his hands. “Oates says you can join the cadets.”

 

Ted had no idea what being a cadet meant, but he figured it was better than whatever he was currently. He quickly dressed himself and followed Franklin to somewhere he hadn’t been allowed to go yet—the shooting range.

 

***

 

“Well, cadets,” Colonel Oates barked to the group, “You’ll be shooting for the first time today. Try not to kill each other.”

 

Pleased with his speech, the colonel marched off, presumably to yell at another class.

 

A different uniformed man now addressed the cadets. He looked younger than Oates and considerably less angry.

 

“Cadets,” the man started, “I’m Captain Kevin Buttram.”

 

Ted nearly choked on his own spit. Other giggles erupted near him.

 

Buttram cocked his rifle. The laughter ceased instantly.

 

“Today I’ll be teachin’ you the basics of gun safety, and then we’ll practice shooting those targets. Take a rifle and let’s get started.”

 

Ted got in line with the other cadets as Buttram handed out rifles.

 

“Before you get too excited, they ain’t loaded,” Buttram said.

 

A few disappointed mumbles came from the class.

 

Ted shrugged and took a rifle.

 

***

 

After hearing at length how to turn safety on and off, how to load, how to cock the rifle, and what “trigger discipline” was, Ted was about ready to nod off.

 

“Since you seem so eager, Logan,” Buttram said, “Why don’t you go first?”

 

Ted snapped to attention. “Uh,” he said, then quickly added, “sir?”

 

“Go shoot one of the targets, Logan. If you can stay awake long enough to do it.”

 

Ted nodded and walked up to the spray-painted yellow line. He loaded his gun and cocked it. Taking a deep breath, he turned off the safety, aimed, and fired.

 

The bullet hit the target dead center.

 

“Well, Logan,” Buttram remarked, “beginner’s luck, I suppose.”

 

Not paying attention, Ted cocked his rifle again and shot the next target over, then the next, then the next.

 

All dead center.

 

“Where the hell did you learn to shoot like that, Logan?” Buttram asked, baffled.

 

“I dunno,” Ted shrugged. “I’m pretty good at Duck Hunt.”

 

***

 _July 10_ _th_ _, 1988_

 

 _Bill my friend_ ,

_Thanks for sending the twizzlers and sour gummy worms. They were most delicious._

_I hope summer school is non-heinous, dude. Get that sweet G.E.D. so we can work at the Pretzels & Cheese together when I get out of this place._

_I have to go to school here too, which is bogus. You know I’m not scholastically inclined. Besides Literature I’m failing everything. But I guess grades don’t really matter here if you’re good at the military stuff._

_Apparently I’m good at shooting things. So they’re not kicking me out yet._

_Excellently yours,_

_Ted_

_J_ _uly 18_ _th_ _, 1988_

 

_Ted my friend,_

_Sweet, I love the Pretzels & Cheese. _

_School is most non-NON-heinous. But the G.E.D. stuff is easier than regular_ _school_ _._ _The people in it with me are kinda wack._

_Here’s some m’n’m’s. Hope they didn’t melt._

_Have fun shooting thing_ _s, dude!_

_-Bill S. Preston, Esquire_

 

The m&m’s had indeed not melted. Ted crunched on a handful while reading his copy of _Just So Stories_ by Rudyard Kipling, which wasn’t assigned for literature class but he liked _The Jungle Books_ so he figured he might as well give it a once-over. Turns out books weren’t as heinous as he had once thought. They just didn’t assign any of the good ones at San Dimas High.

 

Ted wondered what he and Bill would be doing if this were any other summer. Band practice, video games, trips to Waterloo, attempts to score (unsuccessfully) with babes. But mostly a whole lot of nothing—the best kind of nothing, sweating in the summer heat of the San Dimas, lazing around without a care in the world.

 

But they weren’t kids anymore, and it turns out that being an adult meant you didn’t have any fun. Ted was still managing to sweat his ass off, by virtue of the punishingly difficult exercises Colonel Oates required. He didn’t have his guitar—and to be honest, he hadn’t had the heart to even play air guitar since coming to Alaska. Because what was the point of playing air guitar without Bill?

 

At least there was shooting. Captain Buttram had bumped him up to next year’s class for target shooting, and there was nothing quite like hitting a target dead center.

 

He wished he could show Bill how cool it was.

 

*** 

The months went on, and the bright days of summer began to blur together, morphing into bitter Alaskan autumn. The days became colder, the nights became longer, and Ted’s sharp-shooting became even sharper.

 

And the letters from Bill became few and far between.

 

Maybe Bill was busy. He would be finishing his G.E.D. around now. Maybe he was searching for a job. Maybe he had a girlfriend. Maybe he was just busy and didn’t have time to write to his best friend.

 

Or maybe he wasn’t Ted’s best friend anymore.

 

But something was eating at Ted. It just didn’t feel right. They had promised to write to each other, and Bill was not one to break a promise. Ted didn’t think Bill would change _that_ much in the past several months.

 

But Ted had already changed so much. He didn’t call anyone “dude,” lest he be forced to do fifty pushups on the spot. He kept his head down. He kept his mouth shut. He even read books now—and _liked_ them—which Bill would find _totally_ bogus if he knew.

 

But fundamentally, Ted was still the same person—at least he thought so. So Bill should be the same. At least, best friends keep their promises.

 

If that’s still what they were.

 

So with the chump change his father had sent him for his birthday in his back pocket, he threw on a hoodie and trekked across the campus to the only working payphone. Freezing his ass off, he slotted in the change with a _clank_ and dialed Bill’s house.

 

_Ring. Ring. Ring._

 

Ted rubbed his hands together. His breath came out white in the air like those cool smoke effects at concerts. He and Bill hadn’t been to one in a long time. Bogus.

 

A feminine voice picks up. “Hello?”

 

Ted clears his throat. “Oh, hi, Missy. It’s Ted. Is Bill home?”

 

“Hi Ted! How’s military school?”

 

Ted bites his lip. Missy was hot—she was the prime babe of San Dimas High before she graduated and promptly married Bill’s dad—but man, she _never_ shut up once she got going. “It’s fine, Missy. I wanted to talk to Bill.”

 

“Right, right. Let me see if he’s in his room.”

 

Ted waited patiently at the phone for several minutes, feeding the machine whenever it started to beep menacingly at him. Finally, Missy came back on the line.

 

“Ted, honey?”

 

“Yeah, Missy.”

 

“I’m so sorry, Bill’s not home.”

 

Ted’s stomach sank. “Oh. Okay.” He looked at his watch. It was pretty late in Alaska, which meant it was an hour later than pretty late in San Dimas. “Why is he out so late?”

 

“I think he’s seeing his new friends,” Missy said. “He told me he met them in G.E.D. class.”

 

New friends. Okay. Bill was allowed to make new friends. That shouldn’t be bothering Ted as much as it was.

 

“Thanks, Missy. I appreciate it. I gotta hang up, I’m out of quarters.”

 

“Goodbye, Ted.”

 

He hung up as the machine garbled at him to add more change.

 

*** 

“Attention, Cadets!” Barked Colonel Oates. The cadets were already at attention, considering that was the beginning protocol of every drill, but the Colonel never seemed to give up the chance to screech at people. “Today you’ll be learning a vital skill: self-defense! So pay attention!”

 

Having screamed until his face was red, Oates left with a _humph_.

 

Ted wondered if he taught any of the classes or if he just payed himself to yell.

 

“Thank you, Colonel Oates,” Lieutenant Murray said, half-under his breath. “At ease, cadets.”

 

After everyone stopped clenching their everything, Murray instructed the class to get into pairs.

 

Nobody paired up with Ted, despite his best efforts to look useful. Why did they enroll kids in odd numbers? Just to make Ted even more of a loser?

 

“Logan,” Murray said, with a tinge of unease, “I suppose I’ll be demonstrating with you today.”

 

Ted gulped. “Yes sir,” he said, the reaction automatic in him now (but a part of him would always pause and choke down a _yeah_ , _dude_ ) _._

 

Murray dragged Ted up to the front of the class. The rest of the cadets watched gleefully.

 

“Now, Logan, I hear you’re quite the sharpshooter,” Murray began.

 

“I suppose, sir,” Ted replied, wary.

 

“Well, that doesn’t mean shit in my class,” Murray laughed, and immediately grabbed Ted and quickly wrestled him into a rear chokehold. “Try to escape.”

 

Ted barely responded. This happened to him more than once in San Dimas High. All he had to do was stand and wait until the bully got bored. But this was being graded, so he probably had to do something.

 

Before he could think of a move, Murray released him. “Pay attention, Logan,” he grumbled before moving in to attack again.

 

Ted kneed him as hard as he could in the balls.

 

Class was dismissed early that day.

 

*** 

It was Captain Buttram that came to pick up Ted from out of the “thinking room,” which was what the ramshackle containment cell was legally allowed to be named.

 

“Logan,” Buttram spoke.

 

Ted looked up from the discolored patch of water damage on the floor that looked like a horse. He had named it Sal the Stallyn. (He was in there a while.) “Yes, sir, Buttram, sir,” he responded.

 

“So I’ve been briefed on the situation. And while you shouldn’t’ve done that to Lieutenant Murray,” Buttram broached, “it sure was fucking funny.”

 

Ted’s eyes widened in surprise.

 

“The man’s got a bag of frozen peas down his pants,” Buttram said. “His fault for not wearing a cup during fuckin’ self defense class. I thought kneein’ nuts was ninety percent of that crap. But whatever.

 

“Point is, Logan, you’re damn talented behind a gun. I haven’t had a student this promising in years. I’ll raise hell before Oates expels you.” Buttram pauses, then chuckles. “He won’t, because he desperately needs the tuition pay, but I’m sure he’s threatened it already.”

 

“He has, sir,” Ted said.

 

“I’d have some choice words to say about that man if he weren’t responsible for my paycheck,” Buttram grumbled. “And hirin’ me in the first place.”

 

Ted smiles slightly.

 

“Anyway, kid, haul ass to the cafeteria if you wanna grab some grub before they close up. Oates wanted you in here longer but I ain’t gonna tell.”

 

“Thank you, sir,” Ted said.

 

“Don’t thank me,” Buttram replied. “Come to the shooting range bright an’ early tomorrow.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Ted said. _Excellent, dude_ , his heart sang.

 

***

Time went on, and Ted continued to call Bill’s house. More often than not, he was out with these new friends of his. Sometimes, he’d catch him on the phone, but he always sounded... bored.

 

Like he didn’t have time for Ted anymore.

 

Of course, Ted was busy too. Within a few short months, he had exceeded both the cadets and the junior officers in shooting class and was now taking private lessons with Buttram. He had moved beyond rifles, learning how to handle hand other guns and revolvers with ease. (“If we had the budget, I’d love to show you semi-automatics, kid. You’d love ’em.”)

 

Hand-to-hand combat, though, wasn’t going as well.

 

“Alright, punks,” Murray began, “You want to kick hard as shit on the inside of his ankle.”

 

When one “OW!” sounded out from the class, Murray rolled his eyes. “Not _actually_ kick his ankle, Jesus, Franklin. This is _practice_.”

 

“Sorry, sir,” Franklin mumbled.

 

“Unless it’s Logan, than feel free to kick him hard as you like.”

 

The class laughed at that. Ted swallowed thickly.

 

He went to his bunk that night covered in bruises.

 

***

_November 6 _th_ _,_  1988_

_Dear Bill,_

_I know you probably won’t answer this, since you haven’t answered my last few letters, but maybe you’ll read it. Just wanted to say that I miss you, dude. I miss our band. I miss listening to Van Halen and eating pudding cups at three AM for no reason. I miss San Dimas. Alaska is bogus, dude._  

_Excellently yours,_

_Ted_

 

*** 

Just after dawn, Ted got up for his private shooting lessons with Captain Buttram. Careful not to wake the other cadets, he crawled off of his bunk and grabbed his fatigues. Stuffing them under one arm, he stumbled sleepily to the communal shower, which at this early hour was blissfully empty.

 

His body was a canvas of splotchy bruises from hand-to-hand combat class. One particularly tender one sprawled his left calf and was slowly morphing from purple to yellow.

 

After scrubbing himself down and wincing through the pain, he ran a cursory hand over his short-cropped hair. It was hardly an inch longer than when those cadets had shoved him down and shaved it all off. He missed the weight of his long hair against his neck. He missed shaking it around like an idiot in Bill’s garage.

 

He missed _Bill_.

 

Ted turned the water off, toweled himself dry and threw on his uniform. Time for shooting. And shooting was the one thing in this entire heinous academy that was fun.


	4. Cogitare

IV. Cogitare

 

“Alright, Logan, get down on your stomach,” Captain Buttram said.

 

“But—my rifle,” Ted started, hefting it in his hands.

 

“Yes, while holding your rifle, get down on your damn stomach,” Buttram repeated. “We’re learning real world shit today.”

 

Ted got down on the ground and looked through the rifle’s sight to the target across the field.

 

“Fully on your stomach, Logan, put your ass down, Jesus,” Buttram grumbled.

 

“Sorry, sir,” Ted replied, and set his hips down against the dirt. “I can’t get as good a grip—”

 

“You best figure out your grip, son, because with your ass in the air like that you’re gonna kiss it goodbye. Literally.”

 

“When would I need to shoot on my stomach, anyway?” Ted asked.

 

“Like I said,” Buttram emphasized, “ _real world shit_. You ain’t gonna get to stand around in perfect form on the battlefield.”

 

“I’m going to the battlefield?”

 

“Well, shit, with your talent, I’d hope so.”

 

“Alright, sir,” Ted replied.

 

He couldn’t think of why he would ever want to shoot someone.

 

***

 

Today’s lesson in hand-to-hand combat was “freestyle”.

 

It was entirely an excuse for Murray to do fuck-all while chain-smoking cigarettes in the corner and grunting out warnings if things got too rough.

 

This did not bode well for Ted.

 

As the other cadets paired up with their buddies, a few played rock-paper-scissors for the right to kick Ted around on the shitty rubber mats that did fuck-all for shock absorption.

 

Eric beat Franklin rock-to-scissors and approached Ted with a toothy grin.

 

“Ready, Logan?” he taunted, chest puffed out. Eric was the tallest out of the cadets, having a full half-head over Ted’s six feet. Ted looked up at him, expression blank.

 

“Go ahead, dude,” Ted replied with perfect politeness.

 

Eric punched him in the gut, knocking the wind out of him. He folded forward, gasping. Eric simply snickered. Laughter rippled through the rest of the class. Murray didn’t look up from his copy of _Penthouse_.

 

When Ted caught his breath again, Eric gave him a push. Ted didn’t react. Eric pushed again. Ted stood still. Eric pushed. Again. Again. _Again_.

 

Ted didn’t budge.

 

Eric snarled, grabbing Ted by the front of the shirt and dragging him forward. Their bodies slammed together, Eric’s face near enough for Ted to count the pores on his nose.

 

“You like this, faggot?” Eric taunted. “Remind you of your boyfriend back home?”

 

“I don’t know what you mean,” Ted responded with practiced evenness.

 

“Haven’t got any love letters from him lately, have you? Must be lonely,” Eric cooed.

 

“Shut up,” Ted said, emotion beginning to tinge his voice.

 

“I bet that cocksucker doesn’t even miss you.”

 

“Shut _up_!” Ted snarled, pushing against Eric. Eric simply laughed and didn’t move a muscle.

 

Ted couldn’t move him forwards.

 

So he decided to move them both _backwards_.

 

With all his strength, Ted grabbed Eric around the arm and shoulder and _jumped_ , hooking both his legs around Eric’s knee and pulling them both backwards to the floor.

 

Ted landed on his shoulder, old bruises screaming at him as he somersaulted back, sending Eric over him to crash on the mats. Ted scrambled to his feet and set one boot against Eric’s throat—just enough pressure to make him squirm.

 

“You like this, Eric?” Ted asked. Eric spluttered.

 

“That’s enough, Logan!” Murray shouted, pushing through the crowd of gawking cadets to pull Ted away from Eric, who lay dumbstruck on the ground.

 

“Well now,” Murray growled, dragging Ted by the collar. “Time for you to have a nice, long thinking session.”

 

***

 

As Ted stared at the ceiling of the Thinking Room, he listened to the shouting match reverberate down the corridor.

 

“That kid is more trouble than he’s worth!” Murray growled.

 

The next voice to echo through the hall was Buttram’s. “Maybe if the other cadets didn’t treat him like dirt, he wouldn’t’ve had to _defend himself_ in goddamn _self-defense_ class!”

 

“ENOUGH!” Colonel Oates barked. “That brat’s father is paying me decent cash to have’m here, so unless he’s startin’ riots, we’re keepin’ him!”

 

“Yessir,” Buttram replied.

 

“Murray?”

 

“...Yes, sir.”

 

Oates seemed to accept the response. “A night in the thinking room oughta do him good,” he said.

 

Ted heard them disperse—squeaks and thuds of boots marching in separate directions. Only one lone set of footsteps approached him. The cell door screeched open.

 

It was Buttram. “I can’t keep saving your ass like this, Logan.”

 

“I’m sorry, sir,” Ted replied.

 

“I know it ain’t your fault. But you gotta keep a low profile. Murray’s been here longer than me, and if he really wanted to, he could convince Oates to kick you out.”

 

“Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad.”

 

“Really? You got something good to get back to?”

 

Ted swallowed thickly.

 

He wasn’t so sure anymore.

 

“Shit, Logan. You look like someone killed your dog.” Buttram reached into his pocket and procured an envelope. “Maybe this’ll cheer you up.”

 

Ted sat straight up. “A letter?” _Excellent!_ “Is it from—” Ted paused. “Uh, who is it from?”

 

“Says ‘Stanley Preston, Esq.’ You friends with a lawyer?”

 

“That’s Bill’s dad,” Ted said. “Um, Bill, he’s my—we were best friends in San Dimas.”

 

“Well, give it a look,” Buttram said, tossing the envelope over to Ted, along with something else. Ted caught it—a key. “That’s the key to my office. You can sleep on the couch in there. It’s not like Oates is gonna check.”

 

Buttram scratched the back of his head. “Well, I better get back to my shithole apartment.” He turned to exit the cell.

 

“Captain?” Ted started.

 

“Yeah, kid?”

 

Ted held up the key. “Thank you.”

 

Buttram nodded. “See you at the range tomorrow, kid.”

 

***

_November 16 th, 1988_

_Ted—_

_This is Mr. Preston. I hope they’re treating you well at military school. Since your father works holidays, I’d like to invite you to Thanksgiving with us this year. I’m sure Bill would be happy to see you._

_Maybe you can talk some sense into him while you’re here._

_Best,_

_Stanley Preston, Esq._


	5. Gravis

V. Gravis

 

Fresh off the airplane from Alaska, Ted wandered the airport terminal. It was Thanksgiving Day, and family members embraced as a steady stream of passengers arrived.

 

Ted scanned the crowd for Bill’s dad to no avail. The plane had arrived on time—he had given Mr. Preston his flight information over the phone—so he _should_ be here.

 

“Is... Is that _you_ , Ted?”

 

Ted turned around at the sound of Mr. Preston’s voice. “Yes sir, Mr. Preston.” The _sir_ came unbidden, but Ted didn’t correct himself.

 

Mr. Preston chuckled and gave Ted a hearty pat on the back. “Well, with your new haircut, and your Hulk Hogan arms, I hardly recognized ya!”

 

Ted scratched the back of his head. “I guess I do a lot of push-ups now.”

 

“You need to get any luggage?” Mr. Preston pointed in the general direction of the baggage claim area.

 

“No, I’ve just got this one backpack,” he said, gesturing to the bag slung over his shoulder. In it he’d stuffed some clothes, his toothbrush, and a copy of _Treasure Island_ (which he found dust-covered and forgotten in the back of one of the Academy’s designated schoolrooms).

 

“Well then, let’s get going,” Mr. Preston said. “Missy’s got the turkey in the oven.”

 

*

 

The long car ride from LAX to San Dimas was uneventful. Mr. Preston gave a full run-down on what was new in town (absolutely nothing), how Missy had repainted the downstairs bathroom hot pink and he doesn’t have the heart to tell her it looked awful, and how Ted’s brother Deacon had a growth spurt and joined the freshman basketball team.

 

Not a single time did he mention Bill.

 

Ted wanted to bring up the letter, and what he meant by “talking sense” into Bill. Maybe Bill hadn’t given up on their pipe dream of being rockstars and was neglecting his responsibilities. What _were_ his responsibilities, anyway? He should have his G.E.D. soon, if not already, and he had seemed eager to work at the Pretzels & Cheese...

 

“So, uh,” Ted started, “How’s Bill?”

 

The smile on Mr. Preston’s face looked more like a grimace.

 

“He’s alright,” he said, after a minute. “He’s... getting mixed up with the wrong people, that’s all.”

 

“Oh,” Ted said.

 

He waited for Mr. Preston to elaborate, but the elaboration never came.

 

Ted decided not to push the issue.

 

*

 

“Missy, Bill, I’m home!” Mr. Preston called out as he opened the front door.

 

“You’re right on time,” Missy said as she bounded out from the kitchen to plant a kiss on Mr. Preston’s cheek. “The turkey just came out of the oven.”

 

Ted eyed the turkey on the kitchen counter. It was utterly unremarkable. “It looks great, Missy,” Ted said. “Uh, I mean, Mrs. Preston.”

 

“Ted!” Missy exclaimed. “Look at you, handsome!” She eyed Ted up and down appreciatively. Ted shifted back and forth, self-conscious. _Remember when I asked her to the prom?_

 

“Has Bill come downstairs yet?” Mr. Preston asked.

 

Missy sighed. “No. I’ve already tried three times.”

 

“ _BILL_!” Mr. Preston shouted at the foot of the stairs. “It’s time for Thanksgiving dinner!”

 

“Yeah,” was the muffled reply from upstairs.

 

“I have a surprise for you!” Mr. Preston urged.

 

“Alright,” Bill called back.

 

“You didn’t tell him I was coming?” Ted asked, bewildered.

 

“Well, I haven’t been able to get a word in edgewise,” Mr. Preston said with a shrug.

 

A minute elapsed and Bill had not emerged from his room. Missy, exasperated, stomped up the stairs and pounded on his door.

 

“William Stanley Preston, you get your ass downstairs _right this minute_ ,” Missy snapped, “Or you’re not getting any apple crumble.”

 

“Okay, okay!” Bill opened the door.

 

Ted wasn’t prepared for what he saw.

 

Bill was too thin. His skin was grayish and pale, and the bags under his dull eyes were purple and sunken. His jaw was dusted with patchy yellow scruff, and his unruly curls had grown long enough to brush against his sweatshirt collar. The sweatshirt in question hung off him like a tent. Ted remembered him filling it out just fine a few months ago.

 

Something was very, very wrong.

 

“Bill?” Ted’s voice came out funny.

 

“Ted!” Bill’s face lit up, and he started to look like Bill again. He hurried down the stairs and rushed up to Ted, giving him a noogie. “Most excellent haircut, dude.”

 

“Thanks, dude,” Ted replied, “but I miss my most triumphant locks.”

 

“Ted, dude, your arms,” Bill exclaimed. “You must have the Alaskan babes all over you.”

 

Ted didn’t want to remind Bill it was an all-boys’ academy, and that the nearest town was mostly old people and fishermen, but he smiled all the same.

 

“I was never good at getting babes, Bill,” Ted said, “I don’t think my newfound musculature will change that.”

 

“Oh, I imagine it will,” Missy chimed in from the kitchen. Ted felt his face heat at the comment.

 

“So, uh,” Ted started.

 

“Uh,” Bill continued.

 

Silence hung heavy in the air.

 

Mr. Preston cleared his throat. “Let’s eat, boys,” he said, “before the food gets cold.”

 

*

After a painfully awkward meal, Bill and Ted retreated to Bill’s room, as was customary.

 

Upon entering Bill’s room, Ted was hit with a wave of ungodly stench. He stifled a cough. _It smells like a skunk died_. He looked around to see if there was a particular source of the odor.

 

Bill’s room was in total disarray. Bags of empty potato chips lay crumpled on the floor. A small trash can was overflowing with garbage, and next to it, a brown paper grocery bag held even more trash. His bed wasn’t made—and Ted remembered Missy having an absolute cow if Bill ever left his bed unmade.

 

Piles of laundry were heaped on Bill’s desk chair. And Ted was home sick during the day the D.A.R.E. officer came to their class, but he had spent enough time observing the other cadets to know that the big glass thing on his desk wasn’t a decorative vase.

 

“Bill,” Ted started, “why do you have a marijuana smoker?”

 

Bill snorted. “Ted, dude, it’s called a bong.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“I have one because I smoke pot.”

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

“Only on the weekends, dude, don’t freak out about it.”

 

Ted wasn’t freaking out about it. At all. In fact, Ted was oddly calm.

 

This didn’t make any sense. When a group of cadets managed to smuggle a bag of hash into the academy barracks and smoke it, all it seemed to do was make them loopy and eat a lot of snacks.

 

“Did you want to try some, dude?” Bill asked. "It is most calming."

 

“No thanks, dude,” Ted said. “They drug test at the academy.” They were _supposed_ to drug test at the academy, but Colonel Oates didn’t have the budget.

 

“Well, if you change your mind,” Bill said, “let me know.”

 

“Yeah,” Ted said.

 

This wasn’t it. This couldn’t be why Bill looked so _wrong_. There had to be _something_.

 

_Just tell me what’s wrong_ , Ted wanted to say. _Just tell me, dude—_

 

“I’m gonna take a leak,” Bill announced, bringing Ted out of his thoughts.

 

“Okay,” Ted replied.

 

As soon as Bill closed the door behind him, Ted immediately went to Bill’s chest of drawers.

 

When Ted found a porno mag in the dumpster outside the Circle K, he had entrusted it to Bill for safekeeping. Bill had taped it to the underside of his sock drawer. You couldn’t know it was even there unless you knelt down to the floor and looked up while the drawer was open. Ted had long since taken it back (to tape it to the underside of _his_ sock drawer), but if Bill were to be hiding something, this was the place.

 

Ted opened the drawer with a careful hand. He ducked down and tilted his head up.

 

A plastic sandwich bag was taped onto the underside of the drawer. Ted gave it a pull and it fell into his palm.

 

Pills of different sizes, shapes and colors settled to the bottom of the bag. There was what looked like a sheet of stickers, or temporary tattoos—what the hell _were_ these?—with some already ripped off, and a packet of something white and powdery.

 

“Ted?”

 

Ted flinched.

 

“What are you doing?” Bill pressed, his hand tightly gripping the door handle.

 

“I... I was looking for my magazine, dude,” Ted said.

 

“I gave that back to you junior year, Ted.”

 

Ted swallowed. “Oh yeah,” he said. “Guess I forgot.”

 

Ted still couldn’t bring himself to look away from the bag in his hands.

 

Bill approached Ted and snatched the bag from him, hastily taping it back up to the drawer before he slammed it shut. Ted still knelt on the floor, frozen.

 

“Does... does your dad know about this? Does Missy?”

 

“They know I smoke pot,” Bill said.

 

“That isn’t pot, dude,” Ted said.

 

“How would you know, Ted?” Bill said with a humorless chuckle.

 

“Because I’m not _stupid_ , Bill!” Ted raised his voice.

 

Bill’s shoulders sagged.

 

“I’m sorry,” Ted said in a rush, his pulse beating heavy in his eardrums, “I didn’t mean to yell at you, Bill.”

 

“It’s okay,” Bill said quietly. “Let’s just talk about something else, man.”

 

Ted took a deep breath. He didn’t want to talk about the Academy. He didn’t want to ask about Bill’s G.E.D. class. 

 

He just wanted things the way they were.

 

“Um,” Ted started, “I was actually thinking we could learn how to play.”

 

Bill looked down. “Oh?”

 

“Yeah, I mean, there’s one non-heinous instructor at the Academy. I think he’d let me keep my guitar in his office if I asked. They’re still in your garage, right?”

 

Bill looked nervous. “What’s in my garage?”

 

“Our guitars,” Ted explained. “Wyld Stallyns, dude.”

 

Ted gave a little air guitar, hoping Bill would join along.

 

Bill didn’t.

 

“I...” Bill’s voice began to tremble. “I sold them.”

 

“Sold what?” Ted said, confused.

 

“The guitars. I _sold them_ ,” Bill said.

 

Ted’s stomach dropped.

 

“You... sold them.” Ted’s mouth was dry.

 

Bill continued, “I was in deep with my dealer, and I--”

 

Ted could hardly breathe. “You _sold them_?”

 

“Ted, you weren’t here, dude,” Bill said. “You weren’t _here_.”

 

“I had no _choice_ , Bill!”

 

“Yeah, well maybe if you stood up to your dad once in your life, you would have!”

 

Ted took a deep breath and swallowed back the insult he was about to hurl back at him. The last time they fought was in junior high and they promised to never do it again.

 

_But what the hell were promises worth, anyway?_

 

“Bill,” Ted started, straining to keep his voice even, “let’s just—”

 

“I needed you _here_ , Ted!” Bill said through choked sobs. “I needed you _here_.”

 

All of the anger dissipated from Ted’s body as soon as he heard Bill cry.

 

Without a word, he walked up to Bill and hugged him.

 

There were so many things Ted wanted to say.

 

_We’re going to get through this. I promise._

 

_I needed you, too. The Academy is eating me alive._

 

_I just want my life back_. _I want_ _ **us**_ _back_.

 

But no words would come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I'm sorry omg)


End file.
